Angels of our Flesh
by Pale Treasures
Summary: Charlotte Brontë's Shirley. Shirley's experience of motherhood has been filled with ups and downs. She faces her greatest challenge yet. Caroline tries to help. One shot.


**Angels of Our Flesh**

**Disclaimer: **I only own what you don't recognize. Anything else is Charlotte Brontë's property.

**Rating: **K+, for some darkness

**Summary: **Shirley's experience of motherhood has been filled with ups and downs. She faces her greatest challenge yet. Caroline tries to help.

**Author's Note: **This probably has a lot of mistakes, since English isn't my first language and the editing/proofreading process was a little rushed. Please bear with me.

* * *

If bearing a child had done anything to Shirley's nature, to smooth over what was wild and intemperate, to blend recklessness and fierce independence with new flashes of wisdom and tenderness, it had been to chip away, slowly but surely, at pride. No longer did she stand as happy to be entirely by herself; no longer did she lock lips and heart, lest a confession mortifying to her self-respect should escape. She became open and unreserved, swayed by feelings the intensity of which she did not attempt to temper or deny. How she came across to others was entirely of no consequence, a trait already known to her in the past.

Caroline had always been proud of the change; she had known in her heart, long before Shirley had a child, that it would be so, that it _must_ be so for her. She had not been mistaken. But several trials had to be conquered before Shirley and everyone else could unreservedly admit that the freedom of Shirley's heart had been forfeited for a purer, nobler cause. Shirley herself no longer minded it, Caroline knew; but what struggles and pains had been suffered to get to this moment! What qualms and shows of temper! Poor Louis had shown unwavering patience and fortitude, bearing the passion of his indomitable wife with his quiet strength and sense.

Caroline would be lying if she did not confess that she had, at times, been a little dismayed by Shirley's resistance to motherhood. Her friend, despite the complexity and sometimes secrecy of nature that only recently she had begun to completely crack, had a pure and affectionate heart, which overflowed freely for any deserving cause or person. There was nothing she would not do for them. How could she feel so frightened and uncertain about her own son? She had taken to her own little Agnes with overflowing love and enthusiasm from the moment of her birth, feeling blissfully complete and fulfilled with her arrival. But Shirley was made of different matter in many things, and, when she remembered Shirley's fierce opposition to and nigh pain about her imminent marriage to her much beloved Louis Moore, in the past, Caroline found fewer reasons to be surprised. A precedent was already in place. Shirley had reservations, she had realised, to what she knew she would love the most. She tried her best to respect such curious, delicate sensibilities in her otherwise straightforward friend, and to give aid, when she could.

Today was such a day. Shirley's little son, only three months old, had recently taken ill and remained so, despite the most strenuous, loving efforts of both parents and nurse. A crisis had quickly escalated; and Caroline had sensed her presence would be needed. Only that would be able to tear her from her little daughter's and Robert's side. She walked to Fieldhead with her mother, who could not be persuaded to stay away when her cherished pupil was uneasy in her heart.

It was the first days of spring, and cool dew moistened their path and dulled the sound of their footsteps. The landscape, draped in snowy whites and ashy greys for many months, was just beginning to be coloured by warmer, more exquisite tints. Caroline adjusted her bonnet and wrapped her pale pink shawl closer about her.

"Do you truly think it's nothing serious, mamma? Babies are bound to get sick; Agnes often did, and she is now very healthy. But I fretted very wretchedly, too, before I realised how natural it was. Shirley, however, seems to be taking it far worse than I ever would have supposed. She was always the strong, brave one of the two of us. But one's own children always have a way to break one completely; even the strongest of us. I only hope it really is only a commonplace ailment, and that there is truly nothing wrong with little George."

"I'm sure Shirley has no reasons to be concerned, my dear. Infants, as you say, are bound to fall ill somewhat frequently. I may not have reared you myself, but I witnessed it many a time, when I worked as a governess. If little George is anything like his mother, he will always boast of strapping health, and this moment of anguish will soon be a distant memory."

Caroline was soothed by her mother's reinforcement of what her own heart whispered; still, she could not be completely at ease until she saw her friend. Walking quickly, they soon reached the old manor. They were welcomed in by one of Shirley's maids, who showed some relief to see them; there were no signs of either Shirley or Louis. Faint mewling cries were heard upstairs.

"How is your mistress, Martha?" Caroline asked, whilst being helped removing her shawl and bonnet.

"She is very distraught, Mrs. Moore," Martha informed regretfully. "Doesn't eat and scarcely sleeps; Master is doing a little better, and keeps everything hanging together, but barely. The baby won't stop crying; he has a fever, and the doctor has been here, but he is yet to show improvement."

Caroline and Mrs. Pryor exchanged a worried look.

"Where is Shirley right now, Martha?" Caroline inquired, glancing upstairs.

"In the nursery, ma'am, of course. No one can drag her from the place; and she will fairly assault anyone who tries."

"I shall head there," Caroline decided, and began to make her way upstairs, followed by her mother.

Once she crossed the threshold of the nursery, she was greeted by the sight of a pacing Shirley, her dark blue silk dress a blur of darkness in the dimly lit room. Shirley whirled round abruptly upon perceiving noise, and Caroline was both pained and taken aback by the sight of her friend's wan face, purplish circles crowning the skin below the eyes, her long curls drooping untidily down her face. The rest of her hair looked dishevelled, as though she had slept without taking it down. Her pale, slender hands trembled slightly; she pushed her curls out of her eyes and gazed at both Caroline and Mrs. Pryor with eyes dark and wild. More than ever, she looked like the panther Louis likened her to.

"You're here, I see; you must have heard that my boy does not get better. No matter; I wish I would be stronger than that, but I am glad you have come. One more minute of this and I fear I shall lose all reason."

"You must calm yourself, Shirley," Caroline told her tenderly, stepping towards her and grasping her hands. "Martha tells me the doctor has been; I dare say he has given George some medicine. Your little boy has not yet had the time to recuperate, that is all. But he will, I am sure; he must. My Agnes was also sickly in her first months. However, she was born healthy, like your little George, and she continues to be healthy to this day. Please, do not fret; you will fall ill yourself."

"Look at him," Shirley whispered, a strange, trembling fierceness in her voice. "Look at him; tell me if he looks like he shall improve. I cannot see it any longer; my mind is filled with the most ominous thoughts. I am blind to everything, yet I desperately need some hope. I am a clumsy mother; perhaps it is my fault that he is sick. Perhaps if I had been different—"

"No!" Caroline all but cried, appalled. "You are a wonderful mother, Shirley; you love your little boy more than anything, I _know_. And you know it too. You needed time to accustom yourself to the change of being a mother; there is nothing wrong with that. Do not think such thoughts, for pity's sake. You will only make everything worse. George will get better and once there is peace in your heart again, you will see the error of such words."

"But still, you have been a mother for longer; you boast of experience I cannot know yet. Tell me how you think he fares."

Caroline walked towards the baby's cot and peered inside. Little George's face was flushed, and he breathed a little heavily. His eyes – grey, Shirley's eyes – shimmered. Carefully, Caroline touched his forehead, and found it hot. Swallowing a lump of distress, she turned to face Shirley. "He yet runs a fever."

Shirley blanched further still, looking translucent and faint. "I shall die if he does," she whispered, drawing closer to Caroline and gripping her hand tightly. "I cannot conceive life or wish to live it knowing I could do nothing for him – seeing him slip from the earthly realm when I would much rather be claimed in his place. And Louis will not take it either – he has been bearing up lately, for my sake, I suspect, but I know him too well. The depth of his pain is too great to display. He turns it inwards and allows it to eat him up. Poor Louis. I pity him – he is doing worse than I, and I would offer consolation if I could, but it is beyond me."

"Do not say such things, Shirley, I beg of you. Your boy will be healthy and live long, and give you many joys. The fever will break. Please, calm yourself. It gives me great distress to see you like this."

"Give him me," Shirley demanded, holding out her arms. "If nothing makes him better, then I shall hold him. Perhaps I can help him improve, out of sheer stubbornness. Perhaps if he feels how acutely I suffer, how ardently I pray for his recovery..." She swallowed before her voice could waver again, and fell silent. Caroline gingerly scooped the baby up and passed him to Shirley. She clung tightly to the child, burying her nose in his round, downy head. Her eyes were set with resolution.

"See how being a mother suits you," Caroline whispered kindly, hoping to draw her out of her dejection. "Look how nicely and securely you hold him—how he does not fuss in your arms—he belongs to you and you to him, and it shall always be that way, for you are mother and son, and that is the most unbreakable bond of all. It has taken you some time, Shirley, but your heart has yielded to George's claim, and given him an unalterable home, a fixed shelter for as long as he lives."

"I do not doubt my love for him," Shirley said, gently brushing her nose on the infant's soft, scarce hair. "I never did – I never could. My heart only needed proper acclimatization – its elasticity to be tested to make way for deeper and fuller feeling than any I could have imagined. I needed a final lesson in forgoing freedom forever and learning to live and breathe for another. I do not regret the momentous change or the keenness with which it was felt. But it is too bad that I only discovered the full measure of such love when he is about to be taken from me, and I could not relish his presence enough."

Shirley's words awakened a memory in Caroline's mind, not very distant at all, but which was beginning to feel like it; she remembered the day of little George's birth, a pale, cold December afternoon, and how she had held Shirley's hand loyally throughout the brutal ordeal. Never had she seen Shirley's dignity shatter so utterly—her dear friend's defences crumbling beyond repair. Pride had kept Shirley's pain at bay, at first, and it seemed like Nature herself would not be able to conquer her indomitable spirit. Shirley would be the first to fool her. But it had not been so, in the end. What a disturbing and surprising sight it had been, that of Shirley crumpled in pain, gritting her teeth to prevent shaming herself with screaming, which had nevertheless happened, her long dark hair lank and unkempt. How frightening it had been to see Shirley so different from what she always was!

But it had been immensely touching and rewarding to see Shirley, pale with weariness and tousle-haired, holding her baby boy for the first time. It had felt good and right to see Louis standing beside her, looking down on his wife and new son and radiating quiet pride and joy. It had been difficult for Shirley to get used to her new role, but once every storm of pain and doubt subsided, how tenderly she gazed at her son! How earnestly she watched over his sleep, and wanted to hold him first every morning! What sacred silences fell over the two of them like a misty veil, when Shirley held George in her arms, and simply stared at him, a woman now, beyond the reach of the girl she had been! There was nothing she would not have done for him – the world, with all its terrors and wonders, could not have been a match for Shirley, if anything stood between her and her boy. She had always seen it – Louis, with his distinctive sagacity, surely must have as well – it was only Shirley who had not realised it right away.

"Come, my dear," Mrs. Pryor approached the pair and spoke to Shirley in a mild tone. "Fatigue and misery will not help your little one. You must keep up your spirits. Come and rest for awhile, there's a good girl; his nurse will send for you at once if there is any news."

"I cannot, ma'am, but I thank you for your concern."

"Mamma is right, Shirley," Caroline pressed gently. "Being up and moving in such keen agitation is not good for you. Come and lie down for a while, I entreat you; you will feel better afterwards, I'm sure of it."

A tall, dark figure materialised at the door. Louis Moore had hooded eyes, his swarthy complexion turned ashen. He could summon no smile or word upon seeing the visitors. He wrapped his arms around Shirley, leading her away from the nursery. The baby's nurse entered the room in that moment and rushed to the cot, where George was fussing and crying again.

"Come, Shirley," his voice was even and weary. "There is nothing we can do for him. If he recovers, it shall happen regardless of our presence."

Shirley's face paled more than it had yet, until it looked like she would collapse; her countenance screwed briefly in pain, but she straightened up and blinked. "I shall return in an hour," she stated quietly.

Louis gave a brief nod and proceeded to remove her to their room. He looked over his shoulder at Caroline and Mrs. Pryor. "Thank you for calling. I am sure your visit has done Shirley a great deal of good, even its fruits are impossible to be perceived at present. Remain or leave, however, as you wish. We would not wish to impose upon your kindness."

"No, stay," Shirley murmured. She held out a hand to Caroline. She grasped it and smiled.

"I shall stay, then, for as long as you need me."

Louis smiled slightly. "Thank you."

Caroline smiled back at him, and watched him as he led his broken, listless wife – a sight so unfamiliar it was out-and-out painful – away.

"I do hope, mamma, we shall not witness some severe misfortune," Caroline whispered in concern. "I was convinced it was nothing serious – that he _would_ get better in the end – but, and I fervently hope I am mistaken, I am beginning to doubt it. How hopeless and dispirited are Shirley and Louis, how bitterly they suffer – even the strongest of people cannot help but break under such extreme trials. May God be kind enough to see they do not deserve it."

"That is my hope as well, my love," Mrs. Pryor whispered desolately.

* * *

They faithfully remained with Shirley, even though, for the whole of an hour, she was locked in her room, asleep or not, no one could tell, and Louis nowhere in sight. The nurse did not leave the nursery again, and the subsiding of little George's cries became unsettling, rather than cause for relief. Caroline and her mother waited in a state of silent nerves in the drawing room, barely touching the tea Martha had served them.

"Everything is so quiet," Caroline whispered. "I hope all is well."

"Perhaps the child has finally gone to sleep. That would be a promising sign," Mrs. Pryor responded.

"Shirley is bound to leave her room any minute now. She will wonder at the silence. I am surprised she has not done so yet."

"Perhaps she has fallen asleep too, which would do her a world of good. That is what I hope for. And poor Mr. Moore would benefit from rest, as well."

"Oh, mamma, if Shirley cannot rest, I rather doubt Louis will, either."

Upstairs, there was the sound of a door closing and quick, urgent steps. Caroline glanced up. "Perhaps I should go and see how Shirley and the baby are doing."

"Take care, my dear, that you will not be troublesome to anyone. Support is welcome in times such as these, but it can also be a source of impatience."

"I am sure Shirley will not be displeased to see me."

"If you're so certain, then go. I shall not follow you; I would only get in the way. Bring me news afterwards, if there are any."

"I will, mamma."

Caroline made her way upstairs unaccompanied, for in any case she did not need guidance around a house she knew very well. She stopped before the nursery, where silence still prevailed, uncertain if she should go in or look for Shirley first. She pushed open the door; she found Shirley standing before the cot and her heart skipped a beat, for any meaning could be attributed to her presence. Quietly, she crossed the room and stood beside her friend.

"Shirley?" she whispered.

Shirley turned round abruptly, but, to her surprise, her countenance was glowing with joy, her cheeks rosy and healthy again. "He is better," she uttered. "His fever has broken; his nurse and I checked it. He sleeps now, peacefully, and looks like he always does, when neither disease nor distress touch him. Look at him." Caroline peered over the cot and smiled in relief; the infant seemed restored, his plump cheeks free of the unhealthy feverish flush, and slept deeply, with easy, regular breathing.

"He looks better," Caroline remarked, voice wavering with gratitude.

"Thank God," Shirley whispered, the devoutness in her tone fervent and honest. It attested, more than anything else that day, to the ardent feelings of love and concern towards her son. Caroline was touched to hear it.

"Thank God indeed," she echoed, squeezing Shirley's arm. "Oh, Shirley, I am so delighted for you—truly, I could not be more relieved and grateful if it were my own daughter. Our hopes and prayers have been answered. Has Louis been told?"

"He was here only a little while ago, and never looked more tender, devoted and grateful to hold his son in his arms than he did then."

"I am glad," Caroline whispered, her voice seized by tears of emotion.

Shirley gazed at her earnestly for a second and then locked her in a brief, but tight, embrace. "Thank you," she whispered ardently. "I have no doubt your presence was a balm to this house and all within it, including my son. I have you to thank for keeping my pitiful self from crumbling utterly, and mayhap from further worsening George's condition with my own distress. I would gladly kneel at your feet and kiss them in gratitude."

"There is no need for that," Caroline said at once, seizing Shirley with a tender but firm touch before she could begin to think of it. "Your gratitude touches and pleases me; it will suffice. I would do it all again, and will do it still, whenever any new anxiety troubles you. I could do nothing less, for a friend and a sister."

Shirley smiled, her grave countenance softened by tenderness. "Know that the generosity is returned tenfold, for anything you or your family ever need," Shirley vowed, taking Caroline's hands in hers and squeezing them. "I am forever in your debt, and will only be too glad to have the debt claimed."

"Then I wish you and I never have to see it repaid."

Shirley looked again at her sleeping son and smiled; and Caroline was only too glad to cease speaking and do the same.

* * *

After she returned to her home, Caroline felt grateful and content, heart and soul, to be welcomed by Robert, who greeted her with a kiss and a subtle but ardent look that flashed with genuine fondness and contentment to see her; she was pleased to return to the routine she had, perhaps, begun to take for granted, of Robert leisurely reading the newspaper after his day of work at the factory was done, of Hortense, if she happened to be by, complaining vaguely about all matter of things, of her mother happily retiring to the privacy of her quarters and of her little Agnes, sweet, healthy and beloved, waiting for her.

"Welcome home," Robert told her. "You have taken long at Fieldhead; I was beginning to worry. Is everything alright with my brother and Shirley, and their boy?"

"It is now," Caroline uttered, with deep relief. "Shirley's mother's heart is sensitive and quick to fret; and, for a moment, we all feared we would have cause to worry, but mercifully all fears were dispelled. Little George is well once more, and was resting when we left him. Shirley and Louis will have a much deserved night of peace at last. How have you been keeping in my absence?"

"Poorly, at first, but I soon had to snap to shape," Robert replied, in a morose tone but deadpan face.

Caroline giggled. "You tease me—satirical thing—I shall not be the butt of your jokes for long. Where is Agnes?"

"Upstairs, with Fanny. Rush to your daughter, then, mother hen, and leave me—she will—she will not even glance over her shoulder—but not one second before I take what I am owed, and have been awaiting expectantly all afternoon." He pulled her closer to steal a brief kiss from her; Caroline flushed, but gladly submitted.

"Robert," she whispered, cheeks aglow, "Mamma may see us – or Hortense might, if she were nearby!"

"Do not concern yourself with them; are we not husband and wife? Who are we shaming? And now, run to your little darling. You speak of Shirley's mother's heart, but yours is not any less affectionate or powerful, I know."

Caroline smiled, half apologetically, half proudly, and all but ran upstairs. Now that she was back home, her heart throbbed with acute longing for her little girl. After the ordeal she had witnessed with Shirley's son, she wanted nothing more than to hold Agnes close and thank God for her.

She stepped into Agnes' little room; she was quietly and contentedly sitting on Fanny's lap, who still managed to do her knitting at the same time, looking as satisfied as the little girl. Caroline soaked up the image of peace and domesticity with deep delight and a heart bursting with thankfulness. They did not notice her, and she did not make her presence known right away.

"Fanny," she said at length, in a low, but joyful tone, "I am come at last. Have I been very much missed?" She smiled and held out her arms to her little Agnes, who had inherited her soft curls and fair colouring. The girl immediately grinned at her, settling herself contentedly against her chest and laying her little head on Caroline's shoulder.

"A little, ma'am, but we amused ourselves, I dare say," Fanny commented with a smile, watching them cuddling and rubbing their heads and faces together. She sobered slightly. "How fares Mrs. Louis Moore, ma'am, and her little boy?"

"All is well now with little George, thank God." She looked down at Agnes fondly and kissed the top of her head. "And I was reminded that I am a blessed woman, Fanny." She gazed longer at her daughter, eyes clouding with love. She would endeavour never to forget it; after the hardship and anguish she had endured in the past, it would be a sin indeed never to keenly taste the happiness she had been given. After the affliction she had seen Shirley undergo, she felt that way tenfold. May she never forget to constantly give thanks for her blessings and for her daughter's well-being – and may Shirley share her blessings as well, forevermore.

* * *

**_A/N: _**_Hopefully no one was too out of character, although I fear otherwise. Regardless, I hope you enjoyed it. Please review, if you liked it._**_  
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